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The fact that you still have plans this weekend suggests cancel culture actually hasn’t gone far enough.

GAINING consciousness in a skip, having failed to reach my chambers after a wine-drinking contest with Cardinal Nichols turned ugly, I urinate for a full 22 minutes then head home.

HE’LL come in angry. Hit the Zinfandel. Mutter to himself. Start laughing. Then, because he’s got away with it again, he gets the raging horn. That’s why I’m not there.

AS I walk through the streets, saving money as ever by paying for neither transport or a gym, I chuckle at the houses wasting energy by having windows. What fools.

In the heart of the industrial wasteland of the Black Country, Dudley’s wonderfully affordable for anyone hoping to raise children with laughable accents.

PORN fan Tom Booker, 27, meets a fleshlight modelled on the vagina of a legendary star of adult entertainment. Will he find the sexual connection he’s dreamed of?

What a tangled web we weave when we tell one person we can’t come out to the pub tonight because we’re tired, and another person that it’s because we can’t be arsed.

What kind of a docile cabbagebrain is gonna extract a morsel of entertainment from this line-up from Bleeding Obvious Hell?

ABSOLUTELY furious. Bouncing off the walls. They should not be able to get away with this. Some no-mark third-rate actress? Playing me?

CURRIES are incredibly tricky and involved to make, right? Or is it just perserverance, cooking savvy and throwing spices at meat? What can go wrong?